


your blood is my territory

by saltandanchor



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Fluff, Family Drama, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 00:56:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4120492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandanchor/pseuds/saltandanchor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian dances at the Fairy Tale. He's bored, every night, until a guy with dark hair and tight-set shoulders starts coming into the club.</p><p>He ignores Ian. Ian isn't having that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**PART 1**  

Ian rolls his hips, sliding against the beat. The music is blurring its way through the crowd, the lights drowning everything in neon pink-purples.

He gets bored after three songs. Always does.

Sometimes he’ll play a game to amuse himself. His favorite is to pick a guy out of the crowd and tear him to pieces. He spots an easy mark—salt and pepper hair, thin pinstripes, thick middle.

Ian starts to dance for him. Looks him right in the eyes. Shakes his gold-glitter ass at him, lets his body do all the talking. The man starts to sweat, hard, moving closer. He licks his thin lips. Watches.

When he’s in front of Ian’s podium, he takes out his wallet. Expensive. Armani leather. There’s a picture of two kids giving toothy smiles inside of it. He drags a crisp bill out, folds it once, and steps toward Ian.

Ian juts his hip in offering. The man guides the money under the lip of the glossy spandex. His fat fingertips linger on Ian’s skin, greedy. The tan line from a wedding ring is obvious on his third finger. 

Ian knows the type. Family man. Closet case. Thinks of this place as a special treat—as something he deserves, something he’s _owed_. He’s here to forget the kids he carries around in his wallet for a while. He wants to make Ian his dirty little secret, but he needs to get his rocks off clean. No mess, no wrinkling his suit.

Ian is going to wreck him.

He starts dancing more aggressively, sliding a flat palm down his chest, his abs, against the bulge of his cock. The man watches, jaw slack. Ian licks over his teeth. The man puffs out heavy breaths, riveted. Ian imagines the man’s breath smells like rotting eggs and cheap peppermint. He pushes that thought away and dances like his whole body is an invitation.

Two minutes later, the man is talking with Ian’s manager, arranging for them to spend some time in a private room. Ian’s mouth ticks up at the corners.

His manger gives him the nod, and Ian steps off his podium and leads the man through the crowd and behind a heavy curtain. He shoves him backwards onto the soft leather couch. Ian tells him the rules and straddles him, dancing slow on top of his lap. The man moans like he’s a fucking virgin and Ian almost wants to laugh. He fogs his breath against the man’s neck and murmurs, _how’s your night going so far?_

Ian is sure to bunch his hands into the beautiful bespoke cut of the suit, digging heavy creases into the fabric. He turns and rubs his ass against the man’s crotch, firm enough that the guy comes inside his expensive slacks, ruining them. Ian sucks on the man’s neck as he crashes through orgasm, leaving a throbbing purple hickey for him to explain when he gets home.

“That was fun,” Ian says, getting up. The man is still gasping. Ian is already walking away. “Find me if you want another one.”

The man lingers near Ian’s podium for the rest of the night, a needy mess. 

Ian doesn’t look at him again. 

 

***

 

Ian spills into his apartment at 3 A.M., exhausted and sweat-soaked. It was so much easier to dance when he was manic, when the chemicals in his body would sing through him and give him nights where nothing could touch him, where nothing was heavy or slow. 

He flips on the TV and stands over his rusty sink. He rinses out the mug with the fading Sox logo on it, fills it up, and takes out two pieces of bread. He eats them while he lines up the little orange bottles he knows so well. He tips back the mug of water and swallows down his pills, one by one.

He hasn’t talked to his family in months. They didn’t believe he could do this, could keep himself alive. He saw the way they looked at him every day, like he was some horrible tragedy. Their voices so small and careful, bleeding with pity. _We always knew it’d happen to one of us. Poor, poor Ian._

Ian breathes slow, waits for the shaky feeling he gets when he takes his pills to fall away. _One, two, three. Breathe._

He drops down onto the mattress tucked into the corner of the room. It’s so hot and humid it feels like the walls are dripping. He wraps a thin sheet around his shoulders and sleeps. 

 

***

  

The club is packed tonight. Should be good money.

Ian dances, sinking into the music as deep as he can go. He gets bored eventually and scans the crowd, ready to pick someone new to play with.

There is a guy leaning against the rail of the balcony, looking around the club. He is trying to seem bored, unaffected, but Ian can tell it’s the opposite. The guy’s shoulders are tight with tension. He keeps cracking his neck, biting his lip. He’s not comfortable here. He doesn’t belong. 

Ian can’t spot why, not at first. He seems like the usual young city guy looking to get off. He’s wearing a flannel shirt—nothing fancy, clean and simple. His dark hair is slicked back, less of a style and more of a gesture. Like he felt like he had do something a little better than his usual routine if he was going out to a club. He’s not with anyone, but that isn’t unusual either. Guys come to the Fairy Tale alone all the time. Doesn’t mean they leave that way.

The guy slams back the beer in his hand and then moves, quick and sharp, toward the bar. He orders another, comes back, and stands at the railing again. Ian still can’t quite figure him out. For a guy who came here alone, he’s sure as hell not trying hard to find someone to hook-up with. He’s not even enjoying the view. His eyes haven’t fallen on Ian, not yet.

Ian dances for him anyway. Moves his body slow and sharp, waiting.

The guy’s dark eyes flick past him again.

Ian steps forward, dancing nearly on the edge of the podium, as close as he can get. He’s rolling his body through the thudding lights, putting on a show, willing the guy to look at him. He knows it’s only a matter of time. 

The guy takes another swig of his beer, eyes crawling the crowd. He turns his head exactly right and, finally, sees Ian. Really sees him. His eyes don’t skip over him like he’s a random bit of decoration, not this time.

The guy’s eyebrows tick up, meeting the challenge in Ian’s steady gaze. Ian stares at him, makes it clear that it’s just for him when he rubs the heel of his hand, slow, over the front of his gold shorts.

The guy cracks his neck, swallows the rest of his beer, and heads toward the stairs.

 _So fucking easy,_ Ian thinks, waiting for the guy to make his way over and stare up at him, moony-eyed, for the rest of the night.   

Ian dances, waits. 

The guy never comes.

 

*** 

 

Two weeks later, Ian sees him again.

He’s wearing a dark black button-down this time. Hair slicked back again, shoulders bunched too tight. Ian still can’t figure out why the guy seems so out of place. He’s good-looking—could go home with any of the hungry queens swarming the place, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t talk, doesn’t hit on anyone.

He’s hanging out on the main floor, sitting on one of the couches near the bar. He drinks his beer, watches the crowd.

Ian isn’t letting him go so easy this time. 

He steps off his podium, swapping places with one of the other dancers on the floor. He walks straight toward the guy.

“Twenty-five bucks gets you a dance,” Ian says, sliding forward to stand in the space between the man’s spread knees.

The guy looks up at Ian, eyebrows nearly hitting his hairline. He takes a slow swallow of his beer. There are tattoos spread over his knuckles. _FUCK. U–UP._

“No thanks,” he says, and stands up. Ian is so close that the buttons on the guy’s shirt scrape against his chest. He starts to walk away, but Ian catches up with him, blocking his path toward the exit.

“I could give you a discount,” Ian offers, leaning in close, practically licking the words into the guy’s ear. He’s never had to work this hard at any of his games before.

“Find someone else to shake down, princess. Gotta go.”

The guy shoulders past Ian, leaving him standing alone in the middle of the club.

 

***

  

The third time Ian sees him, the guy is a mess.

He’s got a fading black eye and a bruise on his cheek that’s mottled with deep purples and sallow yellows. There is a cut across his nose, half-healed. 

“Rough week?” Ian asks, coming up behind him, effectively trapping him against the rail of the balcony.

The guy turns around and meets Ian’s gaze, half-smiling, tongue touching the corner of his mouth. 

“You always this persistent at hunting down business, or am I special?”

“Let me give you a dance,” Ian says. “On the house.” 

The guy clicks his tongue, shaking his head slowly.

“I’ve seen this hustle before, Red. Give em a taste for free, right? Then take all their cash.” 

Ian hasn’t seen him up close like this before. Even with the club lights spilling greens and purples all over him, Ian can tell his eyes are bright blue.

“One dance,” Ian bargains. He presses his palm to the center of the guy’s chest, rubbing his thumb in little circles. The guy’s wearing a striped grey button-down. Cheap fabric, clean. He put on cologne tonight. 

“Maybe next time,” the guy says, and steps past Ian.

“Do you even like cock?” Ian shouts after him, half to embarrass the guy and half out of curiosity. He’s never had anyone act like this with him, not at the club.

The guy flips him off, smiling at Ian over his shoulder as he walks away.

 

***

 

Ian has a plan. Well, he has ideas.

The guy always comes in on the weekends, so Ian’s going to ask for doubles—every Friday, every Saturday—until he sees him again.

Then, Ian is going to figure out a way to get under the guy’s skin, to ruffle his cool. He doesn’t care if he has to follow the guy into the fucking bathroom and blow him in a stall to do it. It’s pissing him off, the way the guy just keeps walking away.

He’ll wait.

Blue Eyes will be back.

  

***

  

It takes four weeks of working doubles, but Ian finally sees him again. Problem is, the guy isn’t alone this time.

He is talking to some blonde piece, leaning into him at the upstairs bar. The blonde is tall, muscular, easy smile. He buys the guy—Ian’s guy—a drink and then hooks two fingers into one of his belt loops.

Ian’s guy rubs his bottom lip with his thumb, smooths a hand over his dark hair, flirting back. 

Ian goes hot all over, thinks about how much better he’d feel with a tire iron in his hand. Blondie doesn’t know who he messed with.

Ian watches them, lets the anger push through his veins and move his body in some approximation of rhythm. He doesn’t know why he’s so pissed off, except that some hard, dark thing inside him is screaming that Blue Eyes is _his,_ that those fucking tattoos should be wrapped around _his cock,_ that the guy’s dark hair should be sweaty and mussed because _Ian fucking made it that way._

Blondie fucks off to the bathroom, and before Ian knows exactly what he’s doing, he’s off the podium and stomping up the stairs.

Blue Eyes catches sight of him as he storms toward the bar. His eyebrows tick up, mouth sliding into a smirk.

“Shit, Firecrotch, something got your gold panties in a twist or are you—”

Ian seals his mouth over the guy’s lips, shutting him up. He feels tattooed fingers dig into his biceps, hard, and for a second Ian thinks the guy is going to shove him off. He sinks his weight against Ian instead, dragging their bodies closer. He skims his hands across Ian’s shoulder blades, down the naked slope of his neck. Ian gives as good as he gets, brushing their tongues together, not caring that his cock is already half-hard against the rough fabric of the guy’s jeans. 

“What the hell?” someone shouts, right next to their faces. It snaps them out of it. 

Ah, right. Blondie. He’s pissed.

Ian is about to say something, realizes he should probably smooth this over instead of lose his job because he told a customer to fuck off. Blue Eyes beats him to it.

“Fuck off,” he tells Blondie, hands still all over Ian. “I’m set.”

Blondie just stands there, staring at them.

“I said, you can fucking _go_.” The steel in the guy’s voice makes goosebumps pop up all over Ian’s skin. He’d like to hear that voice again, some other place.

“Unbelievable,” Blondie mutters. He grabs his jacket and trudges off.

Ian grins, smug as all hell, and turns back to Blue Eyes. He starts to lean in again, but the guy jerks away from the kiss.

“Aye, man,” he says. “I know I fell for the freebee this time, but I’m still not about to pay for cock. Go shake your tail feather somewhere else.”

“I don’t want your fucking money,” Ian says, and slips his hand inside the front pocket of the guy’s jeans, snatching his phone.

“The fuck are you—” the guy starts, but Ian is fast. It only takes him a few seconds to type out his number and save it into the guy’s contacts.  _Ian (gold shorts)._  

Ian tosses the phone back to him. The guy catches it against his chest, _FUCK_ spilled out across his out fingers.

Something occurs to Ian. “What’s your name?”

“What’s my fucking name?” The guy laughs. 

“Text it to me,” Ian says, and turns away. He needs to get back to work. If Roger sees him getting a little too up close and personal with someone who isn’t paying for it, his ass is fired.

The guy sticks around for another twenty minutes or so, just watching. His eyes hang on Ian this time, not resisting. He smiles a little from his perch on the balcony and types something into his phone. 

 

***

 

_mickey. since you asked so nice._

Ian smiles, and tosses his phone back into his locker.

 

***

  

Ian is bartending the next night. He’s pouring drinks for some of the regulars when the guy—Mickey—walks over and sits down.

“Can you shake drinks as well as you shake ass?”

“You tell me,” Ian says, smiling as he starts making something for Mickey. He slides it over when he’s finished. “On the house.” 

“The fuck is this?” Mickey asks, looking at the bright green liquid like it might be toxic.

“Appletini,” Ian says, mock-serious. “What, not your usual order?”

“Can you make me a fucking drink? Please?”

“Finish that one and we’ll talk.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Mickey mutters, and downs the entire glass of electric green liquid in one go.

Ian laughs. Mickey grimaces, pushing the empty martini stem back toward Ian.

“I’m taking my break,” Ian yells to Nate, the bartender working the other end of the counter. Nate nods at him.

“Hey, I just got here,” Mickey objects. Ian walks out from behind the bar, his glitter tank reflecting every hue in the room. He comes around to where Mickey is sitting and wraps his hand around his wrist.

“Come on,” Ian says, tugging him up. Mickey follows. 

Ian walks him through the crowd, leading him past an “Employees Only” sign and then through a set of double-doors that spill out to an empty alley. 

“You giving me a fucking tour, or—”

Ian slams Mickey back against the bricks, breathing heavy over him.

“You done avoiding me now?” he asks, rubbing the heel of his hand against Mickey’s crotch.

“Got done with that around the time you crammed your tongue down my throat,” Mickey says, voice surprisingly in control despite the fact that Ian can feel him harden under his palm. “Don’t start something you can’t finish here.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Ian says, and kisses him. Mickey tastes like sweet apples and cigarettes.

They struggle with their clothes, hands messy and too fast as they move over one another. Mickey lets out a low moan when Ian finally gets his jeans open and fists a hand around his cock, stroking him roughly. 

“Fuck,” Mickey pants into his mouth, still trying to peel the skintight shorts off of Ian’s hips. “Fuck, get on me.” 

Ian isn’t totally sure what Mickey means until he turns around and sticks his ass out, pressing his palms flat against the brick wall.

 _Holy shit_ , Ian thinks. His mouth goes dry.

“Gonna leave me hangin here, Red?” Mickey looks over his shoulder and tosses a condom at him. 

That snaps Ian back into action. He kicks Mickey’s legs further apart, yanking his shorts down the rest of the way and letting all nine inches of his hard cock press against Mickey’s asscheek—part warning, part promise. 

“Jesus,” Mickey pants, but he’s pressing back against Ian, hungry for it. Ian sucks his fingers, getting them soaking wet. He moves them low and pushes two inside Mickey, working him open.

“I’m gonna fuck you,” Ian says, voice thick with need. He adds a third finger, stretching Mickey wide. “Gonna fuck you until you can’t stand up.”

“Big fuckin talk,” Mickey breathes, shoving back against Ian’s fingers. 

Ian rolls the condom on, grateful for the fact that Mickey thought to buy the lubricated kind. Not that it’ll help much, not for what he’s got planned. He gives a few more hard twists with his fingers and then yanks them out. Before Mickey can even hiss at the loss, Ian shoves the blunt head of his cock inside him.   

“ _Fuck,”_ Mickey spits. Ian can feel him shuddering around the thick length of his cock, taking it. Ian gives them both a second to adjust, shifting his hips a little. When he finally pulls back and gives a shallow thrust, they both gasp, all the air punched out of them.

“You feel so good,” Ian huffs, moving hard and firm inside Mickey. He sucks at the skin on the back of his neck, tasting sweat and soap. Mickey is making these gorgeous noises, a chorus of groans and half-sobs bleeding out against the wall. It turns Ian on so much he’s shaking, barely keeping himself together.   

Ian slaps away the hand Mickey has around himself, gripping his cock and jacking him in time with each punishing thrust. It’s over too quickly after that. Mickey clenches around him, coming hard, moaning like Ian’s tearing him in half. Ian wants to keep going, wants to keep fucking into Mickey’s tight heat, but everything is suddenly bright white and loud. Before he can stop it, he’s coming too, groaning like a wrecked mess.

They pant, heavy and out of synch. They manage to hold each other up against the wall with the press of their bodyweight.

“Told you,” Ian mutters, his voice thin with exhaustion. 

Mickey huffs out a laugh. “Not like you’re standing too good either.”

Ian hums his agreement into Mickey’s shoulder.

They peel apart eventually—Ian fixes his hair, gives himself a half-assed cleanup before making his way back into work. Mickey splits off and heads for the bathroom. 

To Ian’s surprise, Mickey comes back after that. He sits at the bar and spends the rest of the night complaining about the lights and the heat and Ian’s slow-ass service. But he drinks every neon-colored concoction Ian slides in front of him, smiling, sometimes letting their fingers catch across the sticky wood of the bar.

 

***

  

Ian doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing—doesn’t know when this all stopped being a game and started becoming something else—but he texts Mickey on his day off.

_What are you up to?_

An hour later, Ian’s phone chimes back.

_just finished work_

Ian hesitates, his thumb hovering over the screen before he types,

_Come over?_

He isn’t sure inviting Mickey to his shithole apartment is the best way to keep him interested—it might be a bit of a buzz kill after the glitz of the club. But Ian’s been itching for another fuck like the one they had in the alley, and this seems like the best way to get it. His phone chimes again.

 _txt me the address_. 

Ian does.

He has no idea how long it’s going to take Mickey to get to his apartment, and he doesn’t want to ask. He tries to burn the time by tidying his tiny studio, changing his clothes, hiding his pill bottles. 

An hour or so later, his buzzer goes off. He lets Mickey inside.

“Hey,” Mickey says, walking in like he owns the place. He’s wearing a black t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. Ian thinks he looks ridiculous.

“Is for horses,” Ian says, and instantly regrets it. Mickey raises his eyebrows at him. “I mean, um. Hi.”

Mickey starts laughing. Ian finds it kind of charming, the way Mickey isn’t afraid to give him shit.

“You want something to drink?” he offers. 

“Yeah, whatever,” Mickey says. He walks around the tiny space, picking through Ian’s stuff here and there and examining anything that looks interesting. It’s fucking rude, but Ian finds it kind of charming too.

He brings over two beers, sitting them on the kitchen counter. There are a couple of stools there, the only things to sit on in the apartment other than the bed. 

“Thanks,” Mickey says, uncapping it with his teeth and taking a seat on the stool Ian offers him. They look at each other, not saying much. It’s different, being inside this apartment instead of the club. Feels like it might mean something more than it should.

Ian fixes that by getting up and taking Mickey’s beer out of his hand, straddling him. They kiss slow and dirty, tasting the cheap beer on each other.

Mickey picks Ian up and drops him down onto the mattress, licking the sweat from his skin. They peel the clothes off of each other, taking their time. Now that they’re finally somewhere other than the spectacle of the club, the dark of the alley, they can get a good look.

Mickey’s body is stocky, fit, and riddled with scars. Ian is struck with the very odd idea that he’d like to keep Mickey in bed for a week and taste them all.

They fuck hard and quick, and then again, slow and lazy, enjoying the lack of a clock or an audience. 

“ _Fuck_ , Red,” Mickey groans, his fingernails scrabbling at Ian’s shoulders. Ian rocks into him, bending Mickey almost in half on top of the stiff mattress. 

“Ian,” he pants, their mouths slack against one another. “My name is Ian.”

“Ian,” Mickey gasps, coming all over his stomach.

They fall asleep with the sheet crumpled at the bottom of the mattress, too hot for anything to sit on top of their skin. Ian isn’t sure what it means, falling asleep with Mickey. He decides not to think about it too much.

  

*** 

 

A week goes by. Mickey never comes to the club.

 _Not a big deal_ , Ian thinks. Mickey would sometimes go as long as a month between visits. He’s probably just busy with other shit. 

Ian considers texting him—is in bed that night, bored, thinking about how good it would feel to sink inside Mickey—but his fingers never type out the words. Ian is very aware that he’s been the one chasing Mickey this whole time. He decides to cool it a little, let Mickey come to him. 

He’ll be back.

 

***

  

Another week passes. Still no Mickey.

It’s not something Ian is going to lose his shit over. He’s had his fair share of guys get into bed with him and then ghost. Maybe two times was enough for Mickey.

If it wasn’t enough for Ian, well. That’s just life.

 

*** 

 

Ian wakes up to the sound of his apartment being bulldozed.   

At least, that’s what it sounds like. He’s rubbing the crust from his eyes, thumbing over his cell phone to check the time. 4:13 A.M. It’s too early, too late, for whatever the hell is going on. He sits up, forcing his eyes to adjust. The walls are still rattling around him. 

As the fog of sleep clears, he realizes—someone is pounding on the door.

He groans his way out of bed, stopping to grab the baseball bat leaning against his bookshelf. He walks toward the door, watching it rattle on its hinges. Ian cracks his neck, shakes out his arms, readying himself for a fight.

He peers out the peephole in the center of the door, and sees—  

Mickey. It’s Mickey, standing there. At least Ian thinks so. It’s hard to tell under all the blood and bruises.

Ian unhooks the lock and swings the door open. Mickey nearly falls right into his arms, having pushed his full weight against the door to pound on it. He steadies himself just before he tumbles over, grabbing his ribs and hissing at the effort.

“Jesus, Mick,” Ian says, looking him over.

Mickey doesn’t meet his eyes. He’s breathing in hitches and starts. His nose looks like it’s broken, maybe his ribs too. He’s bleeding from at least three different points on his face. His hands are dirty, but the skin around his knuckles is unbroken.

“I, uh—” Mickey starts, breath thick and labored as he tries to push the air into words. 

“Come on,” Ian says, not needing to hear any explanation. He knows what an uneven fight looks like. Whoever did this to Mickey either had him outnumbered, or was someone Mickey couldn’t or wouldn’t hurt back. 

Mickey is hesitant, wary, but pliable enough under Ian’s hands. Ian gets him inside and sits him down on one of the kitchen stools. He slowly peels the blood-soaked shirt off of Mickey’s shoulders, careful not to jostle his ribs. 

Ian starts to get angry when he sees the way Mickey’s skin is stained black and blue all across his sides, his stomach, his back. Someone hit him with big, meaty fists, over and over. Ian glances his fingers along the worst of the bruising, just below Mickey’s left armpit. Someone kicked Mickey there. 

Ian prods gently at the injury, trying to assess it as best he can. Mickey gasps, closing his eyes. The ribs are bruised, not broken. So at least there’s that.

“Here,” Ian says. He gets up and pours Mickey a glass of water, and then shakes three painkillers into his palm. He brings them over. “Sorry I don’t have anything stronger.”

Mickey looks at him. His right eye is swollen and puffy, but not totally closed yet. Ian presses the glass into Mickey’s hand, sliding his thumb gently over his knuckles. “Take them, okay?”

Mickey nods, and swallows the pills. Ian gets two bags of frozen vegetables out from the freezer and presses one to Mickey’s eye, the other to Mickey’s ribs.

“Hold those there,” Ian says, and goes to the bathroom to get a towel and the first-aid kid from under the sink. He comes back and starts to clean Mickey up, getting the worst of the blood off of him.

“Looks like you don’t need stitches,” he says, cleaning the cuts on Mickey’s face. “So that’s good.”

Nothing about this is good, but Ian feels like he should say it anyway. He takes out a compression bandage and starts to wrap Mickey’s ribs as tight as he can. Mickey gasps into his shoulder, leaning against him.

“I know,” Ian murmurs, offering up what little reassurance he can. “I know how much this shit hurts. I’ve gotten my ribs smashed up like this before. It’s a nightmare.” Mickey grips him as he works, breathing damp into his shoulder. 

Ian finishes, but doesn’t pull away. He hesitates for a second, hands hovering just above Mickey’s skin. He doesn’t know what Mickey wants right now, what he needs. Ian chances it and smooths his palms over Mickey’s back, his hair. “It’s safe here,” he says.

“I know it’s fucking safe,” Mickey snaps, and breathes harder, messier, like he’s about to come apart. Ian wants him to—wants Mickey to let loose whatever dark thing is snarled up inside his chest. But he thinks about how bad even one sob would hurt Mickey’s ribs and decides it might be better to just get him to sleep it off instead.

“Come on,” Ian says, pulling him up. Mickey’s face is clean now, the swelling on his eye gone down a bit, but he looks wrung out, lost. “Come on,” he repeats, tugging Mickey toward the bed. 

He pulls back the sheets and gets Mickey settled on his less injured side. Ian gets in next to him, leaving some distance between their bodies.

They observe one another, staring across the lumpy pillows. The only sound in the room is the low hum of Ian’s fan.

“Why’d you come here?” he asks, though he’s not sure he should.

Mickey’s eyes drift, landing somewhere below Ian’s shoulder. He bites his lip. 

“I’m—I don’t know,” Mickey says, and Ian understands. He knows how it feels to have nowhere else to go.

Ian touches his fingertips to Mickey’s cheek, using only the barest pressure to skim his mottled skin. He isn’t sure he should do this either, but he leans in, touching his lips to Mickey’s.

Mickey sighs against him, pressing back. It’s less a kiss and more a return of pressure. But it makes Ian feel better, like he was a choice, not a last resort.

Ian pulls back, giving Mickey some space again, but Mickey reaches forward and wraps his hand low around Ian’s back, bringing him close.

They kiss, messy and gentle, until they fall asleep.

  
*** 

 

By the time Ian wakes up, it’s the middle of the next day. Mickey is still passed out in bed, the bruises on his skin gone dark and vivid overnight. 

Ian needs to get ready for work—he’s got a shift starting in an hour. He moves quietly, showering and getting dressed without making too much of a racket. He takes his pills and makes some coffee and toast for himself and then for Mickey, bringing over a cup and three more painkillers. 

“Hey,” Ian says, sitting cross-legged on the mattress. He jostles Mickey’s shoulder a little. Mickey squints his eyes open, shifting around in the bed. “Hey, I gotta go soon. You awake?”

Mickey rubs his forehead, looking up at Ian. He nods. 

“Breakfast of champs,” Ian says, offering the plate of dry toast and painkillers to him. “Coffee too.”

Mickey sits up, grimacing a little and holding his ribs. Once he settles himself, he takes the plate and mug from Ian.

“Thanks,” he says. His voice comes out heavy, rusty.

Ian shrugs. “It’s shitty toast.”

A small smile tugs at Mickey’s lips.

“Look, I gotta go,” Ian says, getting up from the bed. “My shift is starting.” He grabs his backpack and starts to head out. He hesitates by the door, shifting his feet. 

“Hey,” he says, turning around. “Mickey.”

Mickey glances up, toast hovering mid-way between the plate and his mouth.  

“Stay,” Ian says. “Stay here. Okay?”

Mickey doesn’t say anything. After a second, he nods. Ian smiles at him over his shoulder and goes.

 

***

 

When Ian gets home that night, the plate and mug are rinsed out and sitting in his sink. The apartment is dark, empty.

There is a sticky note pressed on top of his dresser.

_Had to borrow a shirt. Sorry._

Ian drops down onto the mattress, running his fingers through his hair.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

** PART 2**

The next week at the club is a constant, whirring drag. Every song sounds the same. Every dude who sweats on him and gets too handsy seems to have the same stale breath, the same wobbly cadence to their voice when they purr and beg him for things.

Ian dances, shoves it all down. Doesn’t think. Doesn’t feel it.

He texts Mickey on his break a couple of times. Asks him if he’s okay, if Ian can see him again.

He doesn’t get any reply.

 

***

 

Ian’s phone rings one night, just as he’s leaving the club. He digs his hand into his jeans, almost flipping his phone onto the ground as he fumbles to answer it.

“Hey?” he says. “Mick?”

“Hi! It’s uh, it’s me.” Ian’s jaw tightens. “Didn’t think I’d catch ya, but I’m—”

“What do you want, Fiona?” Ian rubs his fingers into his forehead.

“We just miss you, Ian. Everybody. Debbie, Carl, Liam, you know, they’re always askin about you and what you’re up to. Lip too. He’s sorry about how things went last time, and it’s—”

“I’m not coming home,” Ian says, cutting off the usual request before she can get there.

“I know,” she says. “I know you’re doin good on your own. We just wanna see you, that’s all. Come and have dinner with us, okay? Any night you want.”

Ian doesn’t want. He doesn’t want to go back to that house and have them talk about him like he’s not there, like he’s still too sick to think for himself. But something aches inside him at the mention of Carl, Debbie, Liam. He loves them—that massive, big brother love that will always be wound around his core.

Ian thinks about how Lip and Fiona used to say he was just like Monica, and how much he fucking resented that. But now here he is, leaving the kids behind to wonder about him. _Just like Monica._

It slogs up so much guilt inside him he feels like he’s choking on it. As if he wasn’t enough of a mess right now.

“Maybe,” he says, his voice breaking. “I’m—I’ll try maybe.”

He hangs up the phone.

 

***

 

Ian’s never been in love with anyone. Not really. He used to fall in love—puppy love—every three seconds when he was a kid. Even as a teenager, he thought any guy who fucked him slow and gave him a bit of attention afterward was worth chasing down the goddamn stars over.

Later, when he was manic, everything was love. Everything was bright and perfect, every guy felt like heaven in bed and out of it. He must’ve fallen in love a hundred times that first summer he was sick.

It was all just chemicals, though. Out of balance, out of synch, sloshing around his blood. It was nothing real.

He just wishes there’d been someone, _some_ guy, in the last twenty years of his life that had made him fall hard. Real, hard love.

Because at least then Ian would know for sure that this _isn’t_ it, not even close. He’d know that whatever the fuck he feels for some asshole that bled all over him in the middle of the night and then left _isn’t_ real. Would never be.

Maybe then he could let this go.

 

***

 

Ian is on the L, halfway home. It’s the end of summer and the air is finally starting to turn cool, shedding the weight of the season’s endless humidity. His phone loses power just before the train pulls up at Quincy. With nothing to entertain him, he looks out the window, watching the passengers file in and out.

He thinks it’s a trick, at first. Something his brain is doing to fuck with him. But Ian blinks hard, twice, and he still sees the same thing. There, on the platform, is Mickey, smoking a cigarette and walking toward the stairs.

Ian jumps up and runs out the train doors, dodging through them just before they close. He heads for the stairs and knows that he could have gotten this all wrong—that it was only a split-second of time and maybe the guy isn’t Mickey at all—but Ian has to be sure.

He takes the stairs two at a time, nearly tripping over himself to catch up to the dark hair and stocky shoulders he spots moving toward the exit.

“Hey!” he shouts, just as the guy who is maybe Mickey steps out onto the street and turns the corner.

The guy whips around, eyebrows mashed in confusion when he looks up and sees Ian. “The fuck are you doing here?”

Definitely Mickey.

Before something soft can start to bloom at the center of him, Ian remembers he is pissed as all hell.

“The fuck am _I_ doing?” he shouts, walking over and getting in Mickey’s face. “What the fuck are you doing, huh? You show up at my place in the middle of the night, banging on my door—”

“Hey, hey,” Mickey says, shoving a hand against Ian’s chest to hold him at a distance.

“You bleed all over my stuff and you eat my fucking toast and you say you’re gonna stay—then you just ghost? Never answer my texts, never come to the club again? What the fuck?”

“Jesus Christ, can you chill for a second, Scarface?”

“No, I’m not gonna—”

“The toast? Really?” Mickey’s eyebrows snap up. “That’s a sore spot for you, the fucking toast?” 

“ _Fuck_ you, okay. You disappeared.”

“We ain’t boyfriend, girlfriend here, Red. Why the fuck do you care?”

“You’re the one who came to me,” Ian says. “Don’t you think I’d want to know what happened to you after that?”

Mickey swallows, looking down at his shoes. “That was a big fucking mistake, okay.”

“Why?” Ian feels a flash of hurt at being called a mistake. “I tried to help, I—”

“Yeah, yeah, you did, and then—”

“Then _what_?” Ian demands, shoving Mickey’s arm out of the way and getting right in his face.

“Then I—” Mickey starts, and then stops again. He shifts his weight, takes a few hard drags from his cigarette. “I felt like a piece of shit, alright? For showing up at your place like some lost fucking puppy to get my wounds licked. It’s—” Mickey works his jaw, scratches the bridge of his nose. “You don’t need my shit on your doorstep.”        

“Don’t you think I should get to decide that?”

“What’s it even matter to you, man? You’re a fucking Ken doll,” Mickey says. “You should be in the Bahamas right now with some rich dude buying you diamond-encrusted cock rings or some shit, not chasing me down the stairs at Quincy.”

Ian laughs, not believing what he’s hearing. “You think that’s what I want? The clothes and the gifts and the rich guys trying to shove money down my shorts?” Ian snatches the cigarette out of Mickey’s mouth and tosses it aside. “I’m a party favor to them. I’d never date a guy from the club.”

“I’m from the fucking club.”

“After someone bleeds all over my kitchen floor, they’re not from the club.”

Mickey walks Ian backwards, crowding him against the wall of the train alcove. “What are you sayin, huh?” Mickey asks, his voice pitched low. “You trying to date me, Red?”

“Maybe,” he says, grabbing two fistfuls of Mickey’s hair. “And my name’s Ian.”

He kisses Mickey, messy and rough. Mickey kisses back, hands gripping the small of his back, bunching into the flannel of his shirt. Ian feels it like a flood, relief and arousal mixed together in some endless, heady configuration.

He drags Mickey back up the stairs and onto the train. They find the least crowded section and sit down, shifting to hide their aching hard-ons. They press their thighs close, let their hands slide together and apart, getting away with as much as they can without making out in the center of the train car.

When they finally hit Ian’s stop, they spill out of the train and down the stairs. Ian starts running, turning around and wiggling his eyebrows at Mickey, challenging him to keep up. Mickey laughs, running hard after him, half-tackling him to the ground. He tickles Ian’s stomach, making him laugh so hard he has to stop for a second to bend over and catch his breath.

They slam each other against the door to Ian’s apartment, mouths sealed together. By the time they finally make it inside, Mickey already has his hands under Ian’s shirt, pinching his nipples, feeling up his abs.

“You gonna run again?” Ian asks, yanking off Mickey’s t-shirt, his dirty jeans.

“Depends,” Mickey says, shoving Ian’s boxers down and gripping a calloused hand around his cock. Ian gasps, his eyes slamming shut. “You want me to stay?”

“Yes,” Ian says, and it’s enough, or it better be, because by the time Mickey slides to his knees and takes him into his mouth, Ian is all out of words. 

 

***

 

Ian wakes up the next morning flipped around the wrong way in bed. After a few minutes, he remembers why.

Lazy warmth curls through his limbs as his mind replays all the ways he and Mickey fucked the night before. He stretches out, enjoying the sensation of pleasantly sore muscles. That’s when he realizes—the bed is empty.

His eyes snap open, scanning the small space. _No way_ , he thinks, panic burning away the easy contentment. _Mickey couldn’t have just_ —

“Aye, sleepy face. How do you take your eggs? I was guessing sunny-side up.”

Ian turns around and stares at Mickey. He’s in the kitchen, wearing Ian’s boxers and one of his old ROTC t-shirts, a pan of eggs and bacon sizzling in front of him.

“Yo,” Mickey says, waving a spatula out in front of him. “Am I right or what?”

“Huh?” Ian asks, dumbfounded.

“Your eggs, man.”

“I, uh—” Ian starts. “Yeah. Sunny-side up.”

“Bingo. Fucking knew it,” Mickey says, and starts whistling as he flips the bacon in the pan. A few minutes later, he’s putting everything onto plates and bringing them over, plopping down in the center of the mattress.

“Didn’t make toast,” Mickey says, handing Ian a plate. “Apparently that’s a sensitive fucking topic around here.”

Ian is frozen for a minute, staring between the eggs and Mickey. Then he lunges forward, nearly upending the breakfast in his lap as he kisses him. Mickey makes a quick noise of protest, having to grip both plates to steady them, but he kisses Ian back, eager and a little bit dirty.

“Thanks,” Ian says, pulling away just enough for the words spill out across Mickey’s mouth. “For staying. And for breakfast.”

Mickey doesn’t say anything, but he smiles lopsided at Ian, his palm rasping over the coarse hair on Ian’s leg.

 

***

 

Ian is finishing his shift at the club, walking out of the Fairy Tale and onto the street, when he sees Mickey standing there. Hands in his pockets, waiting.

“Hey,” Ian says, smiling at him. “What are you doing here?”

“Was over in Wrigleyville finishing up some business. Figured you’d be about to get off. Wanna hit a diner or something? I’m fucking starving.”

“Like a date?” Ian teases, smiling even bigger when Mickey goes all fidgety and uncomfortable.

“Jesus Christ, man. It’s fucking waffles.”

“Okay. I’m in,” Ian says, and starts walking alongside Mickey.

Mickey takes out his pack and pulls a cigarette into his mouth. He offers one to Ian, who says no. After a few minutes of walking and smoking in silence, Mickey reaches over and grabs Ian’s hand. It’s the last thing Ian expects him to do, there, in the middle of the street, but Mickey smokes his cigarette and holds Ian’s hand like it’s nothing, like it’s exactly what he wants to be doing.

Ian bites his lip, trying to hide how stupid his smile is, how much he’s lost on Mickey.

They walk into the diner and sit down. Mickey orders waffles, as promised, and Ian orders eggs sunny-side up, grinning at Mickey across the table.

“So,” Ian says. “What kind of business were you doing?”

“You don’t wanna know about that,” Mickey says, soaking his waffles in ribbons of syrup.

“Yeah, I do, or I wouldn’t have asked.”

“Trust me, man, it’s better if you—”

“Oh shit,” Ian says, suddenly, remembering the time. “Fuck, fuck.”

“What?” Mickey asks through a mouth full of waffles.

“I’m—my pills. I’m supposed to take them now,” Ian says. “It’s probably okay, I can take them when I get home. We just shouldn’t take that long.”

“Pills?”

Ian feels a chill run under his skin. He’s never had to tell anyone about this before.

“Yeah. I, uh. I have a thing. Bipolar.” Ian grips his coffee mug, running his thumb along the rim. “I have to take pills for it every day.”

“Bipolar?” Mickey asks. “The fuck’s that?”

“It’s like, um—sometimes I’ll be so high I barely sleep and run around doing a million things, and then I’ll get so down I end up not being able to get out of bed for, uh—a while. A week maybe.”

When he sees the slack, scared expression on Mickey’s face, he hastens to add, “But I’m good now. Stable. Been on meds for over a year. I haven’t had any episodes like that since.”

“So are you, like, cured now or whatever?”

Ian stares down at the pale linoleum, tearing at the edges of his napkin. “No, it’s not like that. I’ll have this forever. The meds just—keep things stable.”

Mickey is quiet for a minute. “Okay.”

Ian’s eyes snap up. “Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay,” Mickey says, shrugging. “We’ve all got our shit, man. Sounds like you have yours under control. That’s more than most of the assholes around here can say.”

A small smile tugs at Ian’s lips. “Yeah, well. My family doesn’t think so.”

“Think what?”

“That I have things under control.”

“Then fuck them,” Mickey says, leaning across the booth. “You got your own place, a steady job. You’re doing good, Ian. Fuck them if they don’t know that.”

Ian looks at Mickey. His heart is a shuddering mess below his ribs.

“Come on,” he says, dropping a crumpled bill onto the counter. “Let’s get out of here.”

Ian takes Mickey home, lets Mickey watch him line up the little orange bottles and swallow his pills, one by one. Mickey holds him after, rubbing his palms up and down Ian’s back while he settles down from the shaking.

Ian’s never let anyone watch him do this. It used to make him sick, the idea of Fiona or Lip in the same room—their eyes going heavy like saucers, watching him tremble under the weight of his meds. But Mickey doesn’t feel like pity. He feels like roots, like something steady to grip against.

Ian takes him to bed afterward. He spreads Mickey out on his back, makes him breathe harsh and shallow as he fucks into him achingly slow, their eyes hanging on each other.

"I can’t—" Mickey pants, fingernails scraping over Ian’s shoulders. “I don’t—”

And Ian doesn't need to hear the rest to know what it means. It means I haven't. I never have. I don't know how.

“It’s okay,” he says, spilling the words over Mickey’s throat.

Ian doesn’t know how to do this either—to cede this territory, to make so much space for someone under his skin. “It’s okay,” he repeats. 

Mickey comes, arching up against him, and Ian breathes, steady and slow, for the both of them.

 

***

 

A month goes by, and Ian thinks maybe Mickey is living with him.

He’s not sure, though.

Mickey sleeps at his place every night, but Ian assumes that’s mostly because of all the sex. Eventually a toothbrush appears in the cup next to his, and it’s not like Ian is going to complain about Mickey having good oral hygiene, so he doesn’t make a thing of it.

But when toothpaste, and then soap, and then shampoo, and then a razor follow the toothbrush, Ian starts to wonder.

It all comes to a head the day Ian notices that there is a garbage bag at the bottom of his closet, filled to the brim with clothes that aren’t his. It occurs to him then that he may be living with a guy he’s not even sure is his boyfriend.

“Hey,” Ian says, when he comes home from his shift that night. Mickey is lying in bed, reading.

“Hey yourself,” Mickey says, giving Ian a once-over. “You look like a drowned fucking cat.”

“Yeah, well. It’s raining,” Ian says, smiling back at him. “Look, can I ask you something?”

“Shoot,” Mickey says, putting down his book in favor of watching Ian get undressed.

“I was wondering,” Ian says, his voice muffled as he pulls the damp shirt over his head, “if we’re a couple or not?”

Mickey raises his eyebrows at him. He hops off the bed and walks over to where Ian is standing, stepping right up to him, their chests brushing together. He looks Ian in the eye for a second and says, “Of course we are.”

“And do you live here?”

Mickey grabs Ian’s biceps and flips him over towards the bed, pushing him backwards onto the mattress. “Hey man, why we gotta be so specific with all this shit? I’m here for right now.”

“Mick,” Ian says, his voice low in the space between them. He is thinking about blood on his kitchen floor, about why Mickey might need a place to stay other than his home. “What happened to you, before you came here that night?”

Mickey is quiet, his thumb making small circles over Ian’s hipbone. “Family shit. It’s not important.”

“I wanna know,” Ian says.

There is a long stretch of silence. Mickey nearly bites his lip raw.

“My dad,” Mickey says, finally, his voice tight and distant. “In and out of jail a lot. When he’s out, I’m his favorite punching bag. End of story. You got more personal shit to grill me on or we done here?”

Mickey gets up from the bed and heads toward the bathroom. Ian beats him there, blocking the doorway.

“Why do you let him do that to you?”

“Why do I fucking—what kinda stupid question is that?” Mickey shouts. “I live in his fucking house. I work for the family business. You think I got a choice in whether I see him or not? Whether he gets to lay into me or not?”

“What family business?” Ian presses, because he’s never gotten this much out of Mickey, not even close. “What do you do?”

“What do I do?” Mickey is fuming, his jaw tight with unshed anger. “Okay, I’ll tell you what I fucking do. I run drugs, bust kneecaps, bury a body here and there whenever one of my fucking brothers is too stupid to clean up his own mess. All that heavy shit. Can you get out of my fucking way, please?”

He tries to dodge around Ian again. Ian’s not letting him.

“You think any of that shit scares me?” Ian challenges, leaning right into Mickey’s face. “I’m a goddamn Gallagher. We buried our aunt in the backyard for her disability money, for fuck’s sake. I’m just as South Side as you are.”

Mickey shoves Ian, knocking him backwards a few steps. He turns around and heads for the front door, snatching the keys off the counter as he goes. He’s got his fist around the doorknob and is about to walk out when he stops. Turns around.

“Gallagher?” he says, voice lilting up. “ _Gallagher_ Gallagher? From Wallace Street?”

“How do you—yeah, that’s. I grew up—”

“My house is five fucking blocks from there.”

“Holy shit,” Ian says, looking Mickey over like he’s seeing him for the first time. “I knew when you first came to the club there was something about you, something I couldn’t figure out. You’re Mickey Milkovich, aren’t you?”

“Why the fuck do you know that?”

“We were on the same little league team. Jesus,” Ian spurts, laughing. “Lip is my older brother.”

“Lip, fucking—Lip _Gallagher_ is your older brother? That guy is such a shithead.”

“I know,” Ian says, walking over to Mickey. “And you’re the infamous Milkovich who was locked off in juvie the whole time I was in high school. They said you’d chewed a guy’s neck off.”

“The fuck?” Mickey says, affronted. “Jesus, people like to run their fucking mouths. I didn’t do any crazy shit like that. I just had, like, five pounds of coke on me when the cops caught me. And I kept having to give beat downs to all the assholes that tried to mess with me in lockup. Extra time added is a bitch.”

“Wow,” Ian says, pressing close, gripping Mickey’s hips. “I had such a crush on you when we were like, six-years-old.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey says, laughter sputtering out between the words.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Ian says, letting his hands wander back to grab at Mickey’s ass.

“What?”

“Do you live here or not?”

“I’m—I don’t fucking know,” Mickey says. “Do you want me to be here?”

Ian leans in, sucking a mark onto Mickey’s neck. “Yeah. Yeah I do.”

“Okay then,” Mickey sighs, and he lets Ian Gallagher suck and lick all over him, smiling against his skin.

                                               

***

 

Ian is in the bathroom, shaving, when someone starts pounding on the door. Mickey is in the shower next to him, and the only other person who knows where he lives is Fiona. That worries him, for a second. Something could have happened to one of the kids. He wipes the shaving cream off his face and goes to the door.

“Open up, shithead!” he hears, from the other side. “I know you’re in there!”

Not Fiona.

Ian looks through the peephole and sees a girl with jet-black hair and a hard-mouthed frown. He has no idea who she is.

“Wrong apartment!” Ian shouts back. His building is old, and every apartment looks pretty much the same—most of the numbers fell off the doors a long time ago.

“Tell _MICKEY_ ,” the girl shouts, still pounding away against the wood, “to get his pale ass out here!”

Ian runs a hand through his hair, not sure if he should be confused, angry, or amused. He goes back to the bathroom.

“Hey, Mick,” he says, pulling aside the shower curtain. “You expecting company?”

Mickey is rubbing a bar of soap under his armpit. He looks at Ian askance. “The fuck are you talking about?”

Ian turns off the shower. Mickey opens his mouth to say something, but stops when he hears the sound of fists hitting the front door.

“I _KNOW_ you’re in there, assface!” the girl yells from the other side.

Mickey’s mouth goes slack. “Fuck,” he mutters, and scrambles out of the shower. He wraps a towel around his waist and flies past Ian.

“Wait, Mickey, who is that?” he asks, but Mickey is already opening the door.

“So you _ARE_ here, shithead!” She launches herself at Mickey, pounding her fists against his chest as hard as she did the door. 

“Hey, hey, hey!” Mickey shouts, trying to knock her hands away. Ian runs over and inserts himself between them.

“Ian, chill the fuck out, she’s not—”

“A fucking carrot top?” the girl sneers, looking Ian up and down. She shakes her head at Mickey. “ _That’s_ what you’re into now? At least Carlos had some fucking hair on his chest.”

“What are you—”

“ _Mandy_!” Mickey shouts at her. “Cool your jets for ten fucking seconds and we can talk.”

“Oh, yeah?” the girl laughs, throwing her arms up. “Because you’re so big on talking. I’m so glad you decided to _talk_ to me before you went and moved out of our fucking _house_!”

“Mandy,” Mickey repeats, stepping out from behind Ian. He holds his palms up. A gesture of surrender. “Let’s just talk for a second, okay?”

“But who the hell she is?” 

“My fucking sister!”

“His fucking sister!” the two shout at him, in perfect unison.

Ian blinks, stepping back. The resemblance is almost uncanny, now that he’s looking for it.

“Sister? I didn’t know you had a—”

“Yeah, okay, sorry I didn’t give you a fucking family tree,” Mickey snaps, and then turns back to Mandy. “Can you sit the fuck down?” Mickey points to one of the kitchen stools. “Please?”

Mandy does, but she gives Ian the stink eye the whole time. “Fine. But tell him to get out.”

“Get the—it’s his fucking place!”

“You know what?” Ian says, gesturing between the two of them. “You two just—talk all you want. I’ve got shit to do anyway.” Ian goes back into the bathroom and slams the door. He rubs his hands over his face, looking at himself in the mirror.

He tries to remember if he knew about the Milkovichs having a sister. He thinks he remembers something about one of them getting expelled from middle school and having to switch districts. Could have been her.

Ian lathers up his face, starting his shave again. He isn’t exactly trying to eavesdrop, but it’s impossible not to hear everything in the next room.

“Mandy—”

“What the fuck, Mickey?” she asks, all the fight drained from her voice. She sounds small, younger.

“Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you like that, but it’s—”

“A fucking _text_?” she says. “You text me, _‘hey, sorry, I moved out, here’s the new address if you got an emergency’_ and I’m supposed to—what? Just be cool with that?”

“It’s—” Mickey starts, then stops. “You know how Pops is with me,” he says, his voice pitched low.

There is silence. Ian isn’t sure what’s happening in the other room, but then he hears her say, very quiet, “You know how he is with me too.”

“Jesus,” Mickey says, swearing under his breath. “I thought—I didn’t think that happened anymore.”

“It hasn’t,” she says. “Not since I was 15 and he finally started cooling it on the meth, but that doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen again. Ever since you came back—”

“Ever since I came back, he’s been smashing me to a fucking pulp every other night. Just for walking down the hallway too loud or whatever shit he makes up in his fucking head. I can’t keep doing it, Mandy. I can’t be there.”

“So you’re gonna be here?” she asks. “With _him_?”

“Yeah. I’m—yeah.”

“I just thought—” she starts, her voice heavy with some emotion Ian can’t quite place. “I figured if one of us ever got out, it’d be with each other.”

Ian hears Mickey sigh loudly, and knows he’s holding his head in his hands.

“Fuck, Mandy. Look, you haven’t even been around. You’ve been staying with Vince or Vinny or whatever the fuck his name is for the last three months.”

“It’s not the same,” Mandy says. “I’m over there most nights, but I still live at _home_.”

“Well, I don’t. Not anymore, Mands, I’m sorry.”

“Jesus, Mickey,” she says, huffing out a small laugh. “You’re really _living_ with this guy?”

“His name is Ian.”

“Do you love him or something?

Ian drops his razor, giving up any pretense of not listening. He presses his ear to the door.

“I’m—maybe,” Mickey says. “I don’t fucking know.”

“Holy shit,” she says. “You do.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Ian smiles into his hand, leaning against the door.

“Oh my god,” she says, and starts laughing. Real, honest laughter. “Wow, you are in such deep shit.”

“Can you keep your fucking voice down?” Mickey whispers, urgent. “Please?”

“HEY CARROT TOP! MY BROTHER IS IN LOV—”

Ian hears a crash, and swearing, more laughter. Mickey must’ve tackled Mandy to the ground, tussling with her over the uneven floorboards. There is the sound of more laughter, another crash, a broken dish.

Ian is pretty sure Mandy is kicking Mickey’s ass.

 

***

 

Despite the initial tension of their introduction, the three of them end up hanging out and playing video games for the rest of the afternoon, eating all the groceries Mickey bought the night before.

Mandy ribs them both—makes jokes about rim jobs and Astroglide and the whole place being covered in their fucking sperm, and for some reason Ian is as easily charmed by her rudeness as he was by Mickey’s.

They both make it clear that she’s welcome at the apartment anytime, no matter what. She says thanks but no thanks—she’d rather sleep on the L in a pinch than anywhere near the jizz bucket their bed must be. It makes Mickey laugh so hard he snorts beer all over himself.

Despite the joke, it’s clear they’re serious about the offer, and she knows it.

When they finally say goodbye, Mandy punches Ian in the arm, hard, and smiles lopsided at him. Ian assumes that means he made his bones.

“Sorry about all that,” Mickey says, once the door closes behind her.

Ian shrugs. “I liked her.”

“Yeah, she’s alright,” Mickey says, stretching his arms in an attempt to hide the smile he can’t seem to shake.

Ian knows about families—about the brutal acts and bone-deep allegiances that define them. He understands how hard it is to step back from that, how tempting it is to sink into comfort and familiarity. He understands Mandy’s fear, Mickey’s guilt. He understands, better than he should.

“Mick,” Ian says, quiet. Mickey turns and looks at him.

Ian steps forward and takes Mickey’s face in both his hands. He rubs his thumbs into the hair at Mickey’s temples and kisses him, trying to say everything without saying it.

_(you are a good brother, a good person; you are more_

_than the place you grew up; you deserve to live somewhere you know_

_you’ll be safe; you are the most beautiful thing i’ve ever had_

_in my bed; maybe is enough for me)_

Mickey pushes him backwards onto the bed. He unbuttons Ian’s jeans and straddles him, yanking down both their boxers. He leans over Ian and grabs the lube from the windowsill, prepping himself messy and quick while Ian watches, mouth hanging open.

He grabs Ian’s cock, stroking it a few times before he lifts his hips up and settles on top of him. They both swear, shuddering all over.

Mickey rides him, slow, his palms pressed flat over Ian’s on top of the mattress, like he heard it all, like he understood.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be warned this fic is now three parts, not two. [mickey voice] THIS ISNT OVER!

**Author's Note:**

> Oh child. Where did this come from. 
> 
> If you'd told me a month ago I'd write a Shameless fic from IAN'S perspective, I would have laughed at you. Actually laughed. Mickey is my love, my heart, my soul. I have no idea where this came from. But baby Ian in this is v important to me. 
> 
> This fic is in three parts. The third part is coming shortly. 
> 
> (yes, it was originally supposed to be two parts but... ha.... haha.... ha... nahhhhh i wrote too much)
> 
> You can catch me at saltandanchor.tumblr.com
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!  
> xx


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